Monotony of a close-cut lawn

The classifieds were the first he reached out to. Politics, he was impervious to, Sports, was beyond him, Classifieds was a compelling necessity.He scavenged through the papers , the unassuming not so ostentatious ads, when a strange little ad caught his baffled eye.

NO SKILLS REQUIRED
EXTRAORDINARY COMMITMENT EXPECTED
PAY NEGOTIABLE AT ALL LEVELS

Such uncanny ads always founds a way to entice him,inexplicably. Nevertheless, 2 years of waiting at long queues at the unemployment office had made him innately desperate.
The next morning, he arrived a couple of minutes before the time mentioned in the Deccan and found himself waiting for the next 90 minutes with a couple of men, he'd often seen at the unemployment office. He mysteriously felt like he was being watched. Beautiful women and jobless men have this uncanny sense, he thought. He felt important; after a long time . A man clad in a tight suit, seemingly in his mid forties led him into a shabby little chamber where 3 men awaited,all with a look of morbid senility showing a long discontented past life. They were neatly clad in finely pressed and meticulously tailored suits. The interviewee felt intimidated and vulnerable,yet unassumingly secretly confident. "Have a seat " said a stoutly balding man, pointing with a cigarette to a cushioned chair. "So tell us about yourself, Mr....."
"Mr.Desai " he quickly retorted,shifting nervously in his chair. " Well there's nothing much to tell really. I finished my schooling in Nagpur. My grades were neither too high to be noticed nor too low to be conspicuous. decided to pursue sciences which i dropped realizing it is not my calling. I moved to Mumbai seeking a job. And just yesterday , I noticed this queer ad in the newspapers and thought i would check it out." A pause later " OF course, the commitment wouldn't be an issue. I have no family, few friends and no bindings. As of now i have no job and no fixed income. " A pause later and with an embarrassed yet curious look on his face he asked " I beg your pardon but i 'm not quite aware of the job description.What sort of skills are expected? What's the scale of payment? All this has not been mentioned at all?"
"Why then are you here Mr.Ravikant Desai?" asked a man in a firm tone giving an impression he did not seek an answer.It sent a chill down his spine because never once had he mentioned his first name.
"That shouldn't be a problem Mr.Desai" the big man said in a hoarse voice. He cracked his knuckles. " You are required to leave behind your entire life for a minimal period of 2 years and stay in a house provided by us and do simple ordinary things told to you. Things an average man on the street is capable of." The bald man intervened " The pay is an extraordinary 12 lakhs per annum which i am sure you would certainly find appealing and pleasing. If you may; regard this as a sort of an experiment, which is rendered to cause no foreseeable harm physically, and perhaps every other which way. This affair, assuming you will agree upon it, will go on for 2 years by when a sum of 25 lakhs will be credited to a bank account opened in your name." He was stunned and dismayed by the change of events in the last minute, the inanity of which gripped him as much as the fluency of the interviewers. He noticed that a small looking man was intently staring at him, failing to utter a single word through the interview. A bell was rung and the man clad in the tight suit outside entered the room and led Desai to a secluded room that looked abandoned for days. They passed through the waiting room where he noticed that the 2 men waiting outside were made conspicuous by their absence. Desai was told by him that he had an hour to decide about the "job offer" and was strongly advised not to trust reason and logic and not bear instincts. In solitude,Desai mulled over the dramatic turn of events which he sensed held a potential of immeasurable peril. But, Desai was a gambler, a risk taker, a believer of destiny and fate , and hence was not reluctant to take up the offer, which he acknowledged not with much delay, to the interviewers great surprise and delight. He was told that he would immediately be deported to the house and instructions will be provided which were to be followed strictly. Lest a day, a moment, should arrive that he failed to obey, an immediate collapse of the agreement would effect.
The house he was to live in was perhaps the most extraordinary he had ever seen. It boasted of a large living room, a filthy bathroom and 2 bedrooms, although only one of them had a bed. But what surprised him most was the presence of an inexplicable colossal ground right by the house. The terrain,mysteriously seemed familiar to him, but Desai couldn't quite place it in his head. His instincts warned him and his conscience. And yet like so many of us,in dire need, he suppressed them. The instructions given to him were succinct and precise. He was to awake at 730 every morning, was to eat the same meals everyday at the same time at the same place. He was made to sleep at a precise unaltering time. His whole life seemed to be programmed and controlled,every moment of it, even the time he would empty his bowels. But perhaps seemingly the focal point of the extravaganza was that he was made to enter that bizarrely placed ground by the house at 10 in the morning every single day and a life sized portrait of a discerningly familiar figure appeared in quick motion. He was given instructions in immense brevity to lift a gun placed by him and shoot the portrait with precision, and was warned of slackness . It hardly bothered his intelligence and he went about life;if that's what one can call it; as per the script. The frequency of exercise of shooting the life size portrait was gradually increased to several times a day, which never went beyond 5 in the evening.In gore loneliness, it hardly mattered to him and he remained impervious of the consequences, if there were to be any. This bizarre monotony perpetuated for 2 years, at the end of which he was offered a deal "he could not refuse". His agreement was to be extended for 2 more years, with an increased pay, with the same exercises perennially undertaken, which he would gladly accept. His life became an epitome of monotony,and slavery. At the end of the fourth year, his employers thanked him amiably for his services,the purpose of which still baffled him; and offered to show him around the town, since he had totally remained aloof of it for the past few years. They rode him into a car,which surprisingly had no windows, eventually led him to a ground which he instantly recognized,which was strikingly similar to his previous home. The atmosphere gripped him and he felt a sense of hypnotism and submission that he had felt so many times in the past four years in the house. It seemed to be a political rally, but it didn't seem to bother his intelligence. After a few minutes, as the clock struck 10, entered a person whose portrait he had shot countless times for the past 4 years. And ironically, Ravikant Desai, the lad from Nagpur,a firm believer of destiny , was scripted and handed over his destiny, as he picked up the gun pre-arranged, pre-ordained, and shot him several times in the chest like the way he had done so many times in the past, because he knew not a life without it. The Prime-Minister of India after enjoying power in corruption for 3 years was shot down in broad daylight even as Ravikant Desai was shot in the head several times by several snipers above him. His destiny, he discovered, was monotony, of subservience of thought, of living in a closed box, in absolute slavery, to an automatic life he was programmed to live, not too unlike from our monotonous lives which we have blindly accepted.

The God of small things

The mind always found solace in that morbidly disoriented setup. Discerning thoughts somehow found a voice amidst that bitter scent of tobacco, that under-rated addiction and perhaps that dishevelled background . Me and KG happened to be the first ones there. The amiable man at the shop lays out 3 cigarettes for us.The new year's resolution of quitting, jointly agreed upon at the drunken carousal the previous night had gone out the window and failed miserably. Nevertheless, it was assumed to be an unwritten law in the male code of conduct that abysmal, fragile agreements made between shots of vodka were redundant when subsequently rationality was restored. We lit our cigarettes and KG scavenged through the ruffled newspaper by him, and bore an exaggerated look of belligerence. He tosses the paper aside,takes a drag and opens the conversation.
" This Mumbai thing was terrible,dude. So many casualties? I was actually kinda disturbed when it happened ."
"Really?"
A pause and a few drags later he remarks "Maybe not.But I would have been, had i been a different person " masking what little sophistication and articulate skill he possessed, evoking a laughter.
"No dude. But seriously, think about it. Security and governance,even today, are as pathetic as it can get. I mean" (pause,2 drags) "terrorists could just barge into our college and bomb all they want and no dog would even realize it".
"Ya!, right! I am sure terrorists are scheming right now to bomb and exterminate the likes of you and me,coz we're such hot-shots.That seems very likely. Besides, why you worried.We can talk all we want, but nothings gonna change."
(pause/1 drag) " Forget this college. Forget you and me. Isn't it a little obvious that things have to change in this country? I mean, you cant get more bullshit governance than this. 200 people die and a state minister says trivial issues like 26/11 happen in cities like Mumbai. You have ministers giving site-tours to directors over our misery. Its pathetic." He hangs on to his cigarette and takes inexplicably longer drags.
I ask the personable owner for a coffee. He obliges. We both start walking back even as i sip onto my coffee. KG is done with his cigarette,not with the conversation yet. He goes on.
"And you have these human rights freaks, that seem hell-bent on saving terrorists' asses. Its ridiculous. You remember that Batla house encounter. That Sharma took 6 bullets in his chest fighying valiantly and Arundhati Roy and Amar Singh come out and claim that the encounter was staged and call him a traitor ruing over freedom of speech? " in an appalling tone accompanied by a slight shake of his head. I am awe-struck at his unprecedented outburst of poignancy and patriotic fervour. I don't express it.I give an air of nonchalance.
I fling the coffee cup to the side. " Its the system dude. 'm telling you. Me and you can debate all we want but nothings ever gonna change. We should learn to accept that whatever change we seek is gonna happen despite the system, least because of the system"
"The system? You know, this term has been used far too much to cover up for our incoherence in dealing with issues. You can reproach the 'system' all you want and demand for change, and yet you'll never stop chucking coffee cups onto the streets, wont you?"
" Come on dude. How's that gonna help? You think me doing that will actually help?" I say garbling up something in my defence pleading innocence.
" Its a start, ain't it? Perhaps something not lacking in this country is scope for improvement and opportunity. You feel somethings not right, protest it. Democracy gives you power like no other."
" Perhaps.. But, realistically it ain't gonna happen. 15 years down the line, me and you are gonna be on the 16th floor in our cushy air conditioned offices licking our bosses ass and at least one of us trying to save a failing marriage. All this razzmatazz trash talk will seem pretty mundane in our rambled lives then. Its impractical,illogical."
" No dude.. I actually wish people elsewhere in fag shops are having this kinda conversation. Somethings gotta give dude. I really wanna do something." he says feebly, pretending to be absorbed in thought.
Even as we walked back to the block, I realized that KG, someone who wouldn't so much as change his jeans regularly,today staunchly talked about changing and challenging a disfigured hideous system,confined and crippled by crooks like you and me; for the country he took a certain pride in.I could rubbish his dogmas and chastise his theories,but it had to be accepted that he was in some way right.
Perhaps, it seems to be lost in oblivion that patriotism is not enunciated when we deliriously tear our clothes when Sachin hits a century,but when we make sure that, that coffee cup belongs to the dustbin, not when Shilpa Shetty 'bravely fights' racism, but when we fight poverty grabbing it by its horns, not when we perennially reminiscent Kapil Dev lifting the cup, but when we reminiscent the unnerving sacrifice made by a youthful Satyendra Dubey, an IIT-grad, who was found brutally murdered trying to blow the whistle over a few corrupt bureaucrats.

But even amidst decaying apathy and clothed in relentless cynicism breeds hope across the country, not on 10 Janpath or Race Course but in insignificant coffee houses, in sleazy bars, in tacky fag shops, in high end restaurants, in cozy homes, deceptively meek slums,people who listen to angels within them, trying to brew their own little revolutions. Perhaps, at the risk of sounding ridiculously extravagant it has to be said that the street side torn-in-strife chap in rags whose portrayal of celebrating life unconditionally in all its hardships, which was hitherto mistaken for subservience,was indeed a face of defiance,of resilience, of hope; in hope of a better tomorrow, which now rest upon us.

Yes,WE can!!

Despondency has hit the streets as angry citizens are flooding the roads with placards, top notch celebrities are expressing disbelief, terror and solidarity, heads of state chiefs and bureaucrats are rolling and there seems to be an unprecedented feeling of animosity towards our system. 26/11 is unequivocally our enemy's most successful accomplishment, and by far our biggest intelligence failure. Secularism and our sovereignty balances itself on a perilous fringe that has hitherto indeed stood the test of time. Look at the facts. We live in a land that has never attacked, never plundered. We live in a land that perhaps can singularly pride upon its non-violent past. We live in a land where we refused to kill to win our freedom. We live in a land that has a woman president, a Muslim Vice President , a Sikh Prime Minister, at the hands of an Italian born national and a fundamentalist Hindu opposition. We practice every religion known to mankind, speak languages the numbers we've lost track of, boast of every ethnicity that has ever existed. We're incredibly warm hearted, duly progressive and aspiring in consciousness. We've been extremely tolerant, immensely patient and yet pleasantly cynical. Our resilient middle class is endearing and persevering,and yet imbibes unmistakable resentment. We have successfully managed to build a multi-ethnic vibrant functional democracy in all glory. Where is it that then that we've faltered? What is it that still makes 15 percent of our population to live on less than a dollar a day? What questions nag us that make us a country with only the have lots and the have nots? We've been left grumbling about our unscrupulous politicians whom we've fallen prey to. We've succumbed to a whirlwind of cheap divisive politics. We find ourselves in the midst of a cynically adamant, morbidly corrupt and bankrupt Pakistan, a disturbed Afghanistan, a treacherous Bangladesh, an emerging strong Communist China and an insignificant Sri Lanka. Our middle class is as impervious to politics as much as our poor class is gullible to. We have complained far too long. We have never had the conscience not to spit on roads, not to throw garbage mindlessly, and not to resort to bribes. We've resorted to our comfortable cushioned sofas in our luxurious living rooms and our elephantine lazy butts do not want to go out there and fight for a good cause. We may cease to be a third world country soon, but our mentality still seems third world. We want change to happen,never want to make it happen. We wait for an Obama to sweep us away with his rapturous speeches and rejuvenate our maligned political and bureaucratic framework . Change , we've certainly believed in, but,pain, we've always lived in. We've never guarded our vote with the sanctity it deserves. We live in a land where me and you can stand for an election based upon a common ideology, yet we've never. On the other hand,ours is still a system which will never let Tianmann massacre to happen, we'll never compromise on the lives of innocent citizens trapped in hijacked planes,unlike Israel. We've long complained to make stringent laws on population control emulating China, but we'd be the first people to protest against it on humanitarian grounds. In the past few years,we have developed in confidence as a nation, we are no longer meek and submissive, no longer subservient. The country,let alone the world itself, cannot afford to have an ineffectual Indian middle class. We are engulfed in boundless opportunities and possibilities, yet we face a myriad of problems to deal with.Perhaps,terrorism is just one amongst a long list. Perhaps the whole issue of terrorism is a little hyped. Thousands die due to disease and hunger in our country every day, lakhs still live in hunger and acute poverty. Perhaps, terrorism comes under the several miscellaneous problems we face. Perhaps, the poor in Bihar did not care about the recent terrorist attacks, perhaps the deprived in UP are more concerned of managing 2 square meals a day. Perhaps, education is our standout priority. Nonetheless, 26/11 has been a symbolic attack on our sovereignty exposing our vulnerability,our insecurities. Perhaps, in bleak times we sense an uncanny spirit awakening, a need for monopoly of virtue. Perhaps, this is our pre-ordained calling to politics of principles and virtue, of responsibility and a sense of patriotic fervour. Our tradition teaches tolerance, our philosophy teaches tolerance, our Constitution practices tolerance, let us not dilute it Let this emotion not fade away like the beautiful sunset in Kashmir.Let us demand questions until we ourselves realize we all along knew the answers, let us assume the mantle upon the value system bequeath by our founding fathers.

The hypocrisy we believe

There’s perpetual talk of how banal the bollywood outfit really is and how oblivious of reality and fantasy prone it is. One self proclaimed king of bollywood, shahrukh khan has inevitably never escaped this callous criticism. I, for one, have never been an unabashed fan oh his exuberance or his presumptuous self. And I actually don’t find myself a loner in this thought. You’ll always come across people who claim to find Khan’s antiques ludicrous and his sense of cinema bunkum and inane. A person of this nature will also pride upon voicing this perception ardently. It is a different matter that he invariably never misses any of his movies nor his interviews or his over the top shows. Again, it is a different issue that he in turn seems to be his greatest critic. As most of us although, he too enjoys the ostentatious glamour and glitter, which by all means is snobbish in his cinema. The women are unbelievably pretty, the locations and backdrops out of this world and the costumes seemingly straight out of Armani’s personal closet. The plot, though, is a little obvious and superficial and the emotion bluntly honest and in your face. This person thus will come out of the cinema hall grumbling and complaining how awful the plot was, how ‘insipid’ the acting performances were and how in your face the glamour was. The truth is he enjoys it; he never fails to catch in on the promos of his upcoming films and always keeps a keen eye on his releases. No wonder in one of his interviews Khan nonchalantly exclaimed “People who say aren’t my fans are plainly lying”. No one could have put it any better. His honesty is appealing. His high spirited confident soul brings in a rare energy. His flamboyance is hard to miss and yet his sophistication shows. It also helps that he’s well educated, well read and also very well informed. Thus, it's never that Khan plays the character on screen but represents various other characteristics, which appeal to larger masses. We’ll always have the Naseeruddin Shahs and the Aamir Khans and the Rahul Boses whose screen presence always mirrors the character, who have exceptional acting capabilities. .Shahrukh Khan himself, though, may not be playing the character in the movie flawlessly, he may not seem to “Get into the character” and he may always seem to be Shahrukh Khan playing Raj, Shahrukh Khan playing Rahul, but it appeals and millions adore him for that. Just for the sheer exuberance and the energy he portrays and the sophistication he manages to bring along with it, like me, it has been a treat for millions to watch him.

Midnight's children

Bread earned from the sweat of strife and the persistence of a transfixed rapt goal is by far the most satisfying form of reward. It sounds a little less extravagant if your transfixed rapt goal is to survive in a demeaning mob of filthy gluttonous creatures(read NiTkians) and the glorified sweat of strife is from a person( magnanimously referred to as SwAmI. I’ve deleted the hyperlink to SwAmI, coz he needs his privacy) who is indeed serving you the bread (read vadapav, half fry, Singapore fried rice etc). People familiar with this obscurely painted picture (in turn read filthy gluttonous creatures) can take solace in the fact that they’re now equipped to handle the greatest of obstacles, the most insurmountable of physical challenges and simply the art of ordering food in a night canteen at peak hour 00:00:00, when all reasonable clocks reset, but the werewolf within a hungry NiTkian come to life. It’s an enterprise in which the mob has shamed the prehistoric barbarics and the SwAmi has challenged the nuances of the famed six sigma.Yup.The famed Night Canteen.

The constant flurry of ‘swami swami’ notwithstanding, SwAmI nonchalantly delivers fried rice after half rice after vadapavs. (For those wondering who/what SwAmI(S, A, I are capitals) is, it’s an NiTk innovative way of addressing of, quite literally, any person in the world). At SwAmI’s helm is another slight grizzly haired sWaMi (notice W, M are capitals here, for brevity and clarity of anticipative mistaken SWAMI identity), whose exploits of preparing Chinese (read INDIAN) dishes is legendary(read not so legendary). As if to complete the package, a sordid Kannada song complete with morbidly obese heroines plays on the screen. In all this frenzy does the process of satiating one’s hunger is successfully achieved.The average NiTkian thus is fed.

Now, is it me or does the food there ironically taste good?

AND NOT SO MANY MILES TO GO BEFORE I SLEEP

Aec test cancelled..ahh.. This is d life I ordered.. I heard a few comrades lament and let out moans.. As m about to reiterate to the person to my right how insipidly psychotic people can get, I smell smoke..(Buzzzzz) I wake up from my slumber..Damn. It was a dream.. It’s not an alarm clock that brings me back to reality..Alarm clocks amplified with a million mosfets don’t trouble my sub conscience.. Nicotine fresh from my roommate’s throat never disappoints. My roommate is staring into the window with eternal gratification(cig) in his hand.. Of course it’s burning out(rapidly).. I compel him to give a couple of drags.. He’s not amused..He bemoans n takes it away.. I scramble across to the mess n gulp in what looks like chapathi.. I discover later tat I was wrong.. The early-sunshine- tobacco hits my head as it hits me ’m late for class.. 3.5 min later(‘m quick) m standing outside the class with the prof 5 min into the class.. I find an accomplice who shares my grievance.. We make schemes to execute a blitz krieg through the back door.. Our plans are foiled as reality hits us.. We quietly walk though the front door trying to look as subservient as we can(the arrogance showed though)with the glare of the sullen prof transfixed upon us.. He promises us to give no attendance(a promise no one has yet reneged)..I give my accomplice a discourse on how cynical n psychotic ec really is.. He agrees..I get a sense of gratification.. We start scheming yet again to launch a blitz krieg this time to get outta the class room.. Reality hits us, as the Prof gives a squeal “MOSFET” n I cover my face n let my subconscious mind fantasize of a world where internal quizzes get cancelled.. EMW207 surprise test.. Ahh.. The dream.. DAMN..Murphy’s laws ..Occur at the worst possible time at the worst possible place(I smirk thinking of the irony).. shud ‘ve known better.. I curse Murphy, the prof n myself for varied n distinct reasons.. I cover my face once again as the paper is put before me, with disgust and absolutely no remorse.. Needless to say exam goes terribly wrong.. I go back to gleefully discover that sachin’s broken the world record thus ensuring that the day will be etched in history as the next big thing to happen in Indian history(first been his debut of course).. I spend the day watching press conferences and jobless people heaping praise upon him.. Aaj tak reports that he had the dal sachin had for lunch had too much salt and that the president of Venezuela seemed not to care about tendulkar’s record thus implying that afro-asian relations are strained.. I have dinner double confirming that its chapathi ‘m eating.. ‘m reassured.. In the meanwhile the tobacco I consume keeps getting diluted with my blood with the usual inane conversations that accompany it.. I promise myself and a few others that ‘l give up smoking.. People no more seem to bother.. Vexed I rally around the corridors looking for fags.. Having failed to do so I come back bury my head under the pillow, lose all hope in life and lose myself in deep sleep..

THE PURSUIT OF FAGS (HAPPYNESS)

At the risk of sounding ludicrous, it’s gloriously fascinating how a man’s pursuit of his wants mediocres the want itself. The need to accomplish his ordinarily insipid aspirations is seemingly both gratifying and wholesome. One distinguished yet rather despicable class of men who affiliate and conform to this emotion would have to be The Cigarette Smokers.

The line of thought in a man’s distraught mind in the metamorphosis of an amateur smoker to an addict holds tremendous juvenile interest. A smoker who starts out on his advent, irrelevant of his reasons (/xcuses) wants to be eventually ADDICTED. Any hint of addiction initially sees light in him getting addicted simply to the thought of wanting to fag. He finds good company, forms a “respectable” social circle and thus begins the transit. The conversations during smoking among the amateurs revolve around the fag itself. The finances of the whole idea seem less then overwhelming. He finds the idea of sourcing out fags very exhilarating and delirious. He then transcends to the next phase. Here monetary state of affairs dominates circumstances. He scavenges and scouts for loose money, gets frenzy if his temptations are not satisfied. The conversations during smoking now seem to evolve around arbitary issues ranging from Fidel Castro’s downfall, to Indian Cricket’s domineering global presence. This phase is immeasurably delightful. His companionship base is strengthened, he unconsciously starts framing faging etiquettes with his comrades and thus the whole smoking business leaves an indelible inannulable impression. He proceeds to the next phase where smoking ceases to be an addiction rather a way of life. Smoking becomes as integral part of him as breathing itself. The financial setup stabilises, forms lasting friendships and the previously inane conversations are now non-existent. His routine of when to and with whom to fag sets in. He innately now has a very important figure to remember on a daily basis-the fag count. We now behold an ADDICT-whose IQ levels seem to fluctuate with his fag count. The inanity of the situation seems mesmerising. The transformation into the dreaded last phase, which always occupied his subconscious mind, now awaits him, where consequences or Karma of his past sins of the diabolical addiction hit him square in the face. Eventually the addiction drives him to his deathbed, and yet unperturbed his addiction remains uncurbed. Consequently and predictably he dies an arrogant, egoistic addicted, grotesque rascal, who all along knew that the means was definitely better than the ends. The pursuit of fags is officially over.